


Home Ground

by Blackpenny



Category: Breaking Bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: This is little more than a drabble, but it came to me after I binged Breaking Bad and got into Better Call Saul. It's my theory that Saul's sleazy personal life is confined to the office and other people's houses. Jimmy's place is for sleeping and watching movies.





	Home Ground

The best the New Mexico police could do was to secure the house for a careful going-over before the DEA onslaught. The feds don’t give a shit about Saul Goodman’s possible kidnapping and/or murder, but they will rip up every floorboard in the hope of finding links the millions Goodman squirreled away for his clients. Allegedly squirreled away; so far there is no evidence that Goodman was involved in anything shady, which is extremely suspicious given Goodman’s clientele. Lieutenant John Jesus Diaz would like to scoop the drug boys, but that’s secondary to finding out what happened to Goodman. 

“Looks normal.” As always, Blake understates the case. The house is a modest three-bedroom, painted mostly white and shades of blue, nothing flashy. There isn’t a lot of furniture but it all looks expensive, leather couch, heavy wooden tables, massive flat-screen. One wall is all flat cupboards crammed with movies, half of which Diaz has never heard of. Some are Betamax, for god’s sake. There are flyers for local cinemas stuck on fridge that contains the basics: eggs, bread, half and half, butter, booze. The freezer is full of packages of homemade tamales and enchiladas. Gifts from grateful clients? 

“You ever meet Goodman?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

Diaz waits patiently for his partner to formulate his thoughts. This habit of Blake’s used to drive him crazy, but he’s become used to Blake’s eccentricities over the last year.

“Come on,” the older man finally says, leading the way upstairs. One of the smaller bedrooms is entirely lined with bookshelves.

“Notice anything strange?”

Diaz takes a good look.

“No computer.”

“Which is why forensics is trying get into the office. Still no cooperation there. What else?”

“Guy likes to read.”

“Yeah?”

Diaz smirks at his partner. “Law books on one side, everything else on the other – nothing mixed up. There has to be a thousand books here and not a single one looks new.”

“And?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, oh Wise One, but every single book is ordered by subject and author like a fucking library, same with all those fucking movies downstairs. How does that square up with what you know about Goodman?”

“I only met him a few times, in a professional capacity. A real shyster. An asshole, but not stupid. Not the kind of guy you’d expect to have this book collection.’’

“The car was a Caddie. This house says Prius to me.”

Blake snorts and walks to another bedroom. This one is obviously where the master of the house sleeps. More blue and white. The dresser, king bed and side tables are all heavy dark wood, but not part of a set. There’s a book of Raymond Chandler short stories and a water glass on one side table. 

“Wow. Revealing.”

“No pictures, no porn, no sign of a woman, unless you count the box of condoms in the bedside table. No sign of much of anything, right? Now look in the closet.”

Diaz sighs theatrically, opens the white painted door and flips the switch. It’s a big closet, probably a nursery done over. 

“Nice system,” he comments. Like the library, the closet is immaculately organized, all hanger bars, matching racks, built-in shelves. It takes all of three seconds for Diaz to realize what’s weird about it.

“What. The. Fuck?”

“I knew you’d like it.”

One side is devoted to pin-striped and checked suits and the loudest collection of shirts and ties this side of carnival: red, turquoise, orange, hot pink, lime green, painful yellow. Diaz opens a shiny wooden box to find a turquoise ‘cause’ ribbon and a selection of tacky legal-themed tie tacks and cufflinks. The jewelry is surprisingly heavy. Someone used real gold to make this ugly shit. The other side is so dull by comparison, just jeans, khakis, faded t-shirts and a few polo shirts as favored by suburban dads. Eight pairs of expensive loafers are lined up on the lawyer side, two pair of sneakers on the other.

“You’re sure this guy lives alone? He didn’t have a boyfriend who works at a hardware store?”

“All the same guy.”

Diaz opens another drawer and pulls out a stack of framed pictures, color and black and white. He spreads them out on the bed; old wedding photos, probably parents and grandparents, a blonde kid of about twelve holding a baby, the same boy older, with his arm around a grinning toddler.

“Which one is our man?”

“The younger brother. We have an appointment to talk with the older brother this afternoon.”

“An appointment? Jesus, he must be really broken up about his brother disappearing.”

“We’ll find out at 3 o’clock, downtown, at the offices of Hamlin, Hamlin, and McGill.”

“He’s hired lawyers? Why the fuck are we not hauling him in for questioning?”

Blake smiles in a way that makes Diaz want to punch him. “Charles Emerson McGill is Goodman’s brother.”

“Fucking. Shit.”

“Yep. James Morgan McGill informally changed his name for professional purposes in 2005. His brother is partner in one of the snottiest, most expensive firms in the state while our buddy here does shit law in a strip mall.”

“You’re a poet, Blake.”

“Glad you’ve learned to appreciate me. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this case is a total shit show.”

“That it is. Shall we mosey and let the techs do their job?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is likely to be borked by canon, so I thought I'd publish it before it's ruined.


End file.
